The darkest night of all my life
a black pine Belgian forest near Bastogne
the last day of the year of 1944
our Army regiment climbed down from trucks
just after sundown
within a whisper the dark was absolute
trapped among precisely planted pines
taller than the windmill on our farm.
At midnight by the colonel’s ticking watch
the quiet order came, “Move out,”
unlike the raucous shouting of the previous year
watching the ball descend beside the Timely tower
we moved in silence, each with hand on the shoulder
of the man ahead
like caterpillars dumb and blind, following the leader.
We stepped out of the dark forest into the new year
into a breathless night of moon and snow and starlight
as fragile and enduring as that first Noel
we marched in single file, each side of the road
the only sound the crunch of boots on snow
the front 2 miles away.
Like shepherds on their pilgrimage we too were bent on peace
our rendezvous a different kind
with those who beat their plowshares and their pruning hooks
to 88’s, to Stukas, and to Panzers
and as was true 2000 years ago
before the world would know a time of peace
there had to be some dying.
Note: the poet was permanently blinded in the subsequent attack,
giving added poignancy to the first line of the poem.
The Gift of Experience
10th Anniversary Anthology
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Home Pond
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Black Forest
Walt Stromer